Post Bellum
by TigerShadow
Summary: It had been war, no denying, but afterwards there is always time to rebuild. The DA reflects. -oneshot-


I got the idea for this quite a while ago, and just now posted it...I'm lazy, I know.

Please read and review! I love some good feedback.

* * *

He gazed around him, absentmindedly adjusting his glasses as he did so.

How long had it been?

Seven years…

It had taken seven years for the castle to fully repair itself. The major damage had been taken care of, some slightly haphazardly, but to fully recuperate was up to Hogwarts itself. It had even taken care of the more hastily done repairs, proving not for the first time that the castle truly did, in a way, have a mind of its own.

He had wanted Ginny to see it, and he might have dragged her along were it not for the fact that she had to stay home with James. She needed the chance to see the school again, needed the opportunity to understand and to know that they were stronger in spite of the war, of the tragedies.

He would not ever say that he had enjoyed the years—to do so would be to lie; what kind of prat would talk up about themselves enjoying being put repeatedly into life threatening situations? Yet they were what had molded him, what had transformed him into who he was today—no longer was he that eleven-year-old boy, forced to cower in the face of his aunt, uncle, and cousin, not knowing that he was a wizard. No, he was a man, made to be so by years of trial and hardship that ultimately won out better for him.

He wishes that the many, many others who believe him a tragic hero would understand that.

* * *

She smiled down at the baby in front of her. He had Harry's hair—which was sort of the way she had wanted it, not that she would ever tell him that—and her brown eyes. Of course, the way he was going he would probably need glasses in spite of that, but again she had sort of wanted it that way.

She looked up above the crib at the calendar. _May 2__nd__._ She knew Harry was up at the school—even if he had not told her the previous day, she knew. Had she not needed to stay with James and handle her soon-to-be-born second child, he would have taken her with him.

Habitually, she combed through her fiery red hair with her fingers. She was not _spooked_ by the school—at least, not anymore; it had taken awhile to get over her past experiences there, but she was alright with it now. Yet was more than just a magic castle. She had eaten there, learned there, played Quidditch there; yet she had also lived in fear there, watched innocents tortured there, nearly met her death there.

Even with all she had done to recuperate, those were not memories she wanted to have resurface any time soon.

She was grateful, therefore, for the chance to get away from it. She knows Harry wonders why, and she has decided that she is content to let him.

Sometimes, perhaps, speculation is indeed better than truth.

* * *

His eyes scanned the room, searching…he knew it would possibly be in the position of being swarmed by wizards and witches, all of whom would be desperately searching for names. Yet all he knew was that he needed, at least, to find it.

There it was—the war memorial.

A few people were gathered around it, but they slowly began to disperse, looking tearful. He certainly did not want to take away from the tragedies, not by a long shot. But this was something he wanted—needed—to do for himself. Alone.

He searched the list of names, hoping it was not passed over…a pang of grief pierced his heart at finding Tonks's and Lupin's names…there, down towards the end—_Fred Weasley._

A glint of gold caught his eye, and his head snapped up sharply. Three names, written at the top of the plaque…he cringed at the fact that they were in larger print than the others…_Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger._

He wanted credit where credit was due, certainly. Despite his temper, he was a fair man. But because he was fair, he knew the names did not belong there. Not there, where the plaque was situated to grieve and honor the fallen. Harry, and Hermione, and he had all risked quite a bit, but they had never had to truly give up _everything._

Maybe he was biased in Fred's favor, but he never did quite agree with that plaque.

* * *

She wished she could have gone. She had wanted to see the castle, but Ron had insisted that she stay home—she did not blame him for doing so, as her baby was rather far along, and it was her first, after all. However, as much as she was aware of the fact that this was ultimately for her and her child's own good, she had still wished dearly that she could have gone.

If there was anything she wished would not have happened after the war, it was the memorial plaque being engraved with her name, Ron's, and Harry's. She had not known until Ron had told her upon his arrival back home, but she was glad that she did not have to see it for herself for a while now. The three of them had already gotten all the credit possible and more. It simply was not doing right by those who had truly given everything for the liberation of their world to give honor to three people who had not even died.

Such is life, she supposed.

She took a sip of her tea and placed the tip of her quill to the parchment. Yet no words came as she did so. She sighed. She had gotten the urge to write—just something, anything—and yet she had not a clue exactly what.

Suddenly, unbidden, an image of a blonde, rigidly-curly-haired woman with a square jaw and bright red talons for nails clutching a crocodile skin bag exploded into her mind. With it came two book titles—_The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ and, recently published, _Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?_

Rather uncharacteristically, she smiled at the memory, the thoughts and images having given her the perfect idea of what to write. In large print she placed a title on top of the parchment that she hoped would be the title of her next bestselling book:

_Harry Potter: The Man Behind the Hero._

* * *

Surrounded though he was by plants, some of which seemed a bit too eager to feel his arm, he had a clear view of the events outside. Every year on this date, starting with the very first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the whole of Wizarding Britain took holiday in its honor. Choosing to take advantage of this, he chose to make the most of the day rather than remain in the greenhouses—he hoped, of course, that making the most of the day meant spending it with Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron.

He walked down the familiar stone pathway to Hogsmeade and prepared to Apparate when someone—or rather, someone's beard—caught his eye. He mulled over his thought for a moment before making a decision.

"Oy! Aberforth!"

The old man looked around, appearing utterly bewildered, before spotting him. "Yeah? What is it, Longbottom?"

He grinned. "Thanks!"

And with that, he turned on the spot and Disapparated.

* * *

She stared up at the bedroom ceiling, contemplating something and yet thinking of nothing. She supposed such things were a benefit of being her—if not that, then the fact that she was usually left alone to do so.

She might have gone up to the school today. It would have been a good day for it—with the war and all. She supposed that she might have done so under different circumstances, the circumstances being here that she did not want to remind herself. Many people were celebrating, she knew; how could they not? She could not blame them for that; the war had ended Lord Voldemort and his reign of terror over the whole of their world.

However, she had not really felt like celebrating with anyone; her father was not the sort of person who delighted in parties and she did not try to change it. On a day like today she merely wanted to sit and think and be alone.

She would not be alone for long, however. A knock on the door, her father and another young man making conversation, and the sound of her name being called told her so. She supposed that she was not particularly surprised that he had wanted to see her; she had been in a relationship with him for three years and of course he would want to go out with her to celebrate the occasion. She had actually known about such a thing for quite awhile; he had owled her with the request and she had replied with a yes. The only problem was that she had forgotten in the midst of her thoughts—though she expected that from her past experiences, this was normal happenstance.

She rolled off her bed and walked down the stairs to meet Rolf, who certainly looked much more excited than need be for a simple outing. "Ready?" he asked her.

"Of course," she replied. Perhaps she was not quite ready; she could have done a few things to her hair and perhaps she might have at least tried to put on more appropriate clothing. However, with both Rolf and her, "ready" meant a number of different things.

She turned to her father, kissed him goodbye, and walked out with Rolf to the front lawn, where they Disapparated.

He did not take her to Hogwarts, as she thought he might; instead, he took her to the Leaky Cauldron, where they had first met (she did not see Hannah; she presumed Neville was there, which she supposed was enough reason for Hannah to take holiday). After a drink or two and a walk around Diagon Alley, she was surprised to learn that he wished to marry her. Smiling, she told him that of course she would.

Everyone remembers, she decides, and some remember by moving forward.


End file.
